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Caught as in an olive press they called Gethsemane. The curse began he to address and feel the agony. Great waves of pain swept through each vein as Christ sweat drops of blood. As on him it began to rain wrath down from high above. And He who in himself was found no stain nor speck of sin, was now about to feel the pain for all my awful sin. As by his stripes My soul is healed and my guilt is washed away, his back was plowed, his skin hung peeled, what due me on him lay. His dying was a must for me if I  would e’er  be saved.  To the Father’s House he was the way, but with blood that way was paved. The soldiers pressed their thorny crown again into his head. And running down his face for me  were streams of crimson red. The masses gawked at Golgotha a place known as the Skull. When he bowed his holy head all charges against me null.   -id